


Dancing Bears

by waitingtobelit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire gets Marius drunk and proceeds to teach him to dance. Marius proceeds to make an ass out of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Bears

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mostly because of that VF video of Eddie Redmayne dancing with a bear which, if you haven’t seen, you really must because it is glorious. I also just really wanted to explore Grantaire and Marius’ relationship more. Thus, here is the result. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written purely for recreational purposes only. I only claim Marie as my own.

Dancing Bears

 

 The second floor of the Café Musain is a river flowing with the majority of its occupants leaving for the night. Laughter fills the air as well as cigar smoke and conversations enriched with wine. Activity bustles around every table except for the table in the furthest corner which boasts only one occupant: a young student hunched over a pile of books and parchment, one hand desperately scribbling away and the other deeply embedded in his mussed up auburn hair. The fading candlelight illuminates the sweat that covers his freckled face like lacquer. Against the stained, yellow wallpaper, the table and its companion flicker like shadows about to ignite.

 

 Marius Pontmercy and his sole companion are the only occupants in the room engaged in anything remotely academic. Several others loiter about, but he cannot bring himself to notice. Recently emerged from a meeting that only just avoided ending in disaster, Marius clings to his translations the way his waistcoat sticks to his chest. His face reddened slightly by panic, he tries not to think about the fact that he needs to finish theses translations by tomorrow. Nor does he think about the lack of money to pay his rent, due the day after tomorrow, should he fail to complete his work.

 

His shoulders practically curl in upon themselves, the argument with Enjolras still lingering in the back of his mind. For all he has come to learn and appreciate from his righteous friend in the past year, Marius still feels inadequate in his presence, particularly when they disagree.

 

Tonight, Enjolras continually insulted Napoleon, a trait that no longer bothers Marius now that he shares in the group’s republican beliefs. But their fearless leader took it upon himself to preach about the ignorance of the soldiers fighting in Napoleon’s name as well. Marius, on behalf of the father he had never known, felt obligated to speak up in his name. Thus they clashed, with both men becoming overly emotionally involved in their arguments.

 

The rest of their friends looked on in discomfort as they clashed. Grantaire only laughed from where he sat on a stool, some reckless maid hanging about his neck. Combeferre and Coufeyrac managed to eventually intercede, calming Marius down with placating words and reminding Enjolras of more prominent issues at hand, such as their current lack of guns, and why don’t they go over some maps back in Coufeyrac’s rooms in the mean time?

 

Marius remains lost in complicated passages he barely understands twenty minutes later, twisting the hand in his hair with each rustle of paper within the book. His irritation settles with the dimming candles as he works. With each stroke of his pen, his breathing slows and the lines on his forehead relax.

 

He yelps like a startled cat and almost jumps out of his seat as a sudden hand grabs his book out from under him, sending his parchment and pen flying off the table in the process.

 

“All that reading and writing is going to your head, Pontmercy,” Grantaire’s eyes are as crinkled as his voice is rendered smooth by the copious amounts of wine already consumed. Yet he sits beside Marius with all the grace of a sober man. “To say nothing of your Bonapartist leanings.”

 

“I thought you left with the others,” Marius replies, face flushed as he runs his hand through his hair before bringing it to rest on the table while his other hand clenches by his side. Where Enjolras goes, Grantaire follows. As he loosens his once white cravat, already fitted loose enough around his neck, he wonders why the cynical man doesn’t follow the fearless leader tonight.

 

“Courfeyrac does not keep enough wine to tempt me,” the other man reads his mind as he shakes his head, black curls falling all about his face. “And I’ve had enough talk of revolution today. So I stay where the wine is good and the women even better.”

 

The red-headed woman clinging to him earlier in the night giggles as he squeezes her arm and flashes her his most winning smile. This moment provides Marius enough daring to reach for his lately lost materials, ignoring the rising heat to his face as the pair exchange almost lewd glances and more giggles.

 

Grantaire, perhaps because of his perpetual existence as a drunk, predicts this and quickly pulls the tome out of the other student’s reach before throwing it clear across the room. Marius’ hand clutches at the wood of the table as he blinks in indignation, opening his mouth to protest as the other man stands up from his chair, gently motioning the woman away as much as he can. She lets him by with a pout.

 

“Marius, you’re not really one of us until you have a drink with me, you know.” He grins like a swindler honing in on a particularly wealthy victim. His wild hair and frenzied eyes gives him the look of a sailor completely taken in by a siren, while his gait, though slightly wobbly, is still impressively sturdy. He could be the hero of one of the (many) penny dreadfuls Marius keeps hidden under his mattress.

 

“But I-” Marius begins. There are so many reasons why he shouldn’t do this, his impending due date and rent not being the least of them. Grantaire stops him with a quick gesture of his hand.

 

“I won’t take no for an answer,” he says, making his way to the back of the room. “And I will use force if necessary. You’re built like a twig, so it won’t be particularly challenging for me.”

 

Marius balks and stutters, his face flushing even more, raising his hand as if to speak, only to find that he has nothing to say. His breathing has become uneven again and even his freckles appear to have a flush of their own. He eventually settles for pouting at the table.

 

 Grantaire saunters over to the table in the back littered with bottles of all shapes and sizes, only stumbling twice on his way. He sniffs a blue bottle before quickly replacing it with a green bottle, which he also rejects. He does the same with a reddish bottle and another green bottle. Choosing a wine appears to be an art form for him.

 

He finally grabs the blue bottle he noticed first and returns to Marius with a grin.

 

“Books fall apart, pages tear,” he says as he pours a glass first for Marius and then for himself. “The only certainty in life is that the glass can always be refilled.”

 

Said glass seems non-threatening enough, even for Grantaire having poured it. The dark red liquid catches the glow of the candles to make for a hypnotic swirling motion as he picks up the drink. He contemplates how this situation could easily turn into Grantaire secretly being a soul-devouring demon just waiting to poison him through wine.

 

“Go on then,” Grantaire says, already having chugged half of his own, “drink and be merry!”

 

Marius jumps a bit again, glancing down at the drink and sighing. He _has_ been reading too much. And even if Grantaire really is some kind of demon, wine can only help soften the blow, really. And what, he asks himself, is the harm of just one drink? He’ll keep control of himself. He will remember his work and his rent.

 

He shrugs and takes a slow but lengthy sip.

 

Grantaire grins as though he is Lucifer just having gotten Eve to bite into the apple.

 

\---

 

One drink turns into three drinks turns into five. Marius doesn’t know how he’s still standing, as shadows on the walls morph into butterflies that dance around his head and he tries to catch them in vain. He bursts out into laughter as they fly away from him and he walks against the wall for support.

 

He doesn’t remember where the chair came from but suddenly he is soaring over it like the butterflies and the floor crashes into him in the blink of an eye. He hurts but he is still laughing in time with Grantaire, who watches him with delight as he twirls his red-headed companion about the room.

 

“See how much fun you’re having already, Pontmercy?” Grantaire is even less sober than he and somehow remains more coherent. Marius pouts as he tries to pick himself up off the floor and fails spectacularly.

 

The world spins about him like a carousel as he hands slip on the floor and his jaw once again crashes into it. He manages to make it on all fours for about five seconds before he tumbles over again.

 

“You are utterly hopeless,” Grantaire’s breath tingles against his skin, mingling with the perfume of his woman friend as they both suddenly appear at his side, taking one of his arms each and lifting him up between them. “Whatever are we going to do with you?”

 

“This was your idea to be – be start with,” his voice slurs into something that might be a song but he is too far gone to really know. “ ’s not my fault at all.”

 

“Perhaps he just needs to learn to dance,” the woman whose name Marius still doesn’t know suggests as they at last get him upright and standing on his own.

 

Grantaire grabs her by the face and kisses her deeply right in front of him. He tries to look away but her answering moan and the way she grabs him by the ass in return renders him slightly more sober. He rocks on his feet as he twirls his cravat around with one hand and tangles the other in his hair. Now would be an excellent time for a vampire to swoop in and take him back to his haunted castle in the mountains.

 

“Marie, you are brilliant,” he exclaims as they pull apart and he grabs Marius by the arm. “And the best dancer I know, so here.”

 

He all but pushes Marius at Marie, and as Marius’ feet still can’t distinguish between air and the ground, he trips and lands directly against Marie’s generous bosom. He squeaks like a mouse at the sensation of her breasts against his face as all the air rushes from out his lungs. He flails, trying to move away but she only laughs and holds onto him, bringing him up to meet her dancing blue eyes, as enchanting as the rest of her fine form.

 

“Don’t you fret little lamb,” she says, petting his sweat-drenched hair and sending more shockwaves through to his poor, inebriated heart. “I will take very good care of you.”

 

Grantaire, meanwhile, moves off to the side of the room, his entire frame trembling with barely suppressed laughter.

 

Marie guides Marius to the center of the room where the chairs and tables have already been pushed aside. Her touch is gentle, yet firm, and though he can still feel her breasts against his cheek, Marius begins to relax as she leads them into what he can only assume is supposed to be a waltz.

 

As it turns out, alcohol only worsens his coordination skills, which, to begin with, were about as reliable as his broken mattress. The wine addling his brain renders him into a jester, all awkward limbs and regrettable smiles that would suit cracked porcelain dolls better. The sweet nectar provided by Grantaire, which after the first cup he could no longer refuse, transforms Marius into even less of a functioning member of society.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats as he steps on her toes for the fifth time in a row. They’ve only been dancing for less than five minutes. She glares at him but keeps guiding him across the room anyway. For a full minute, they dance almost in harmony.

 

A flicker of movement by the front window that almost resembles a bat’s wing causes him to turn abruptly. Perhaps some witch heard his earlier thoughts about vampires. In his haste, he steps on her skirt and foot, tearing one and most likely bruising the other.

 

Marie yelps before pulling out of his arms and slapping him in the face. He reels, stumbling backwards almost over another chair. He manages to miraculously keep himself upright this time, in spite of the tremendous pain radiating from his right cheek, though he cannot bring his hand away from the back of the chair.

 

“You have all the grace of a bear, and I have stayed out too late, monsieur,” she snarls, picking up her skirt and storming out of the room, stomping past even Grantaire, who’s bent over, quaking all the way to his curls in laughter.

 

“You know the ways of women even less than our glorious leader,” he chortles as he walks over; clapping him on the back with such force that almost sends him spiraling back to the ground. “I’m impressed.”

 

The ground suddenly becomes most fascinating. He counts the number of stains and organizes them by type: blood, wine, more blood, urine, wine, blood again, and something that might be some type of oil. He hopes its oil, at least.

 

“Cheer up, Twig,” Grantaire lifts his chin and slips his arm around his shoulders, keeping him in place. “There’s hope yet. You’ve still got me to teach you, and while I’m not as uh, feisty, as dear Marie, I am still quite competent, you’ll find.”

 

Marius mumbles a feeble protest but Grantaire already is leading them back to the center of the room, and his arms feel too heavy to move, anyway. Both men are on equal footing, though Grantaire still appears more stable than himself. The dark haired man sways with him as he takes sweeping steps in a haphazard circle. Marius finds himself placing his arms around the other man’s neck to keep his balance, bringing them close enough that he can taste the copious amount of alcohol on Grantaire’s breath.

 

They dance as the floor beneath them shakes and the candlelight trembles, creating more obstacles for Marius to trip over and more miscreant shapes to follow with his eyes. Grantaire occasionally yelps when he inevitably steps on one or both of his feet, but otherwise makes no fuss, keeping his hands on his dance partner’s waist and continues to lead them around the room.

 

“Now aren’t you glad you had that drink, Twig?” He tilts Marius’ face to meet his eyes. “Isn’t it good to be a little wild?”

 

“Yes,” he replies immediately, a curious contentment settling into his bones. In his intoxicated state, all his worries about rent, his translations, how he will face Enjolras the next day, among countless other details, vanish like smoke with each turn about the room. His arms only just drape over Grantaire’s shoulders and he just barely registers the wood beneath his feet. His head is full of starlight, so filled with such a delicate substance that he might just drift away.

 

“This is revolution,” Grantaire remarks, pulling one hand back to sweep broadly across the room. “Wine is mankind’s true liberator.”

 

“It is,” Marius nods though he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to. He just knows that his companion’s words are as inebriating as the wine itself. The other man smiles though darkness lingers in his eyes.

 

Grantaire snorts, looking down to catch sight of his nearly undone cravat. “Oh, but how could I forget? Every dance needs a grand finale.”

 

He bunches the thin material in his hand and pulls Marius forward before he has a chance to register the fact. They are so close now, noses practically touching, for a moment, Marius wonders if the other man is going to kiss him like the damsels in distress of his novels.

 

Before he can contemplate the idea of it any further, Grantaire releases him in such a way that he completely unravels, spinning like a wind-up doll away from the other man while he still holds onto his cravat. He flails, crying out as the world whips by him like the wind and he attempts to remain on his feet.

 

Grantaire laughs as Marius hits a chair and once again soars over it onto the floor. He remains where he falls, the weight of the evening as well as the pain of falling all over the place multiple times at last catching up to him. Stains cover the floor like a plague yet Marius can’t bring himself to care. The wood cradles him just as well as the tattered mattress back in his rooms.

 

He turns his head only when the soft, thumping sound of approaching feet rings in his ears. When Grantaire drops down on top of him, what little coherence remains to him leaves his body with the breath he exhales at the impact of excess weight.

 

“You don’t mind, do you Twig?” The man says as he lays his head down on Marius’ shoulder. His dark curls tickle as his breath warms his exposed skin. “Even for a twig, you’re a far more appealing mattress than the streets.”

 

“’s fine, I don’t know,” his words tumble out of him with the same amount of grace he’s shown throughout the entire evening as he settles more into the floor.

 

Uncomfortable as Marius is with the weight of the other man on top of him, Grantaire is also warm. So he tolerates the other man using him as a mattress as he uses the other man for a blanket. They remain silent and still for what feels like almost an hour before Grantaire speaks up again.

 

“So we’ll do this again sometime soon, yes?”

 

Marius groans, mumbling into his companion’s curls what sounds like a muffled ‘no’ as his eyes close and he feels himself relax.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”


End file.
